


Houston in Rain

by CipherCifear



Series: Strider's Schadenfreude [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CipherCifear/pseuds/CipherCifear
Summary: A short one shot about Bro. Written as a request about how Bro's side of the story went. Looks at Bro and Dave's interactions and Bro's twisted psyche. There is some fighting in it but not anything hugely graphic or violent.Bro has some control issues and power trips.





	Houston in Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DT_Marley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DT_Marley/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rain in Houston](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910107) by [DT_Marley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DT_Marley/pseuds/DT_Marley). 



> I wrote this as a request by DT_Marley and it go out of hand. This wasn't suppose to be so long and here we are...
> 
> Please note there is no shipping here and any thoughts or feelings Bro has from hurting Dave come from a place of wanting control and power, things he enjoys, not who they are directed to. Don't read into what isn't there.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

 

“Shit.” Was the first word out of Bro’s mouth when he saw the state of his computer, more to say, the state of his fucking hard drive that was being beaten down by the rain from a window left open when the air outside was still too hot and humid to breath.

He flashed, stepped over and slammed the window close, apartment walls rattling around him from the force. Bro looked down at the machine, a flair of anger igniting inside of him that he pushed down, buried it away until he could assess the damage of his hard drive.

 

Fucking rain.

 

It rains once in a blue fucking moon and the one time it comes pouring down he forgot to close the fucking window. It was stupid and a mistake a child would make, a mistake Dave would make.

Bro looked to the window and tried to remember who had been in here last, maybe it had been Dave who let it spread eagle for all sorts of things to come in, it sounded like something the brat would do. Open a window and leave it there like an idiot. But the further he thought on it the more holes in his logic appeared; the kid didn’t do sloppy mistakes like that anymore, Bro had taught him fucking better. He had also taught Dave when in _his_ space not to touch shit and if he did to put it back the _exact_ way he had found it. The last one he hadn’t taught so much as the kid picked up. A smart survivalist move so Bro allowed it.

 

No there really only was one person to blame for the wetness on his computer and it was him. His mistake. His fuck up.

 

Bro felt his mask slip and for a moment a look of anger slipped out. Not many people would notice the difference; a turned down lip, brows pinched ever so slightly, and hidden eyes that held a fire in them, beautiful perfect orange eyes that burned with a hatred towards himself like no other, that threatened to break and split open his face and pour out down his face like tears--

 

Then it was gone and Bro was kneeling down to inspect his hard drive.

 

When he found surface damage Bro relaxed and the anger weaned back into the darkest recesses of his mind. It didn’t vanish. It never vanished. Something kept that anger there, at all times, burning hot in the back of his mind, an undying flame that had long since become a comfort.

But this came with a price. Anger that never pissed off would leave him needing to do something, there was excess energy to burn that left his fingers itching to move, left his body on edge and needing to move, left his skin prickling like someone was watching, always fucking watching.

 

Cigarettes were always a comfort in these times. Nicotine was a release like no other. Booze did a sweet job too but it got him weepy if he had too much and slowed everything around him down to a sluggish pace, but nicotine was a calming agent that caressed his inner soul, brought him off that edge of buzzing excess and down to what one might even call at ease. Never truly relaxed, no, Bro wasn’t going to get sloppy by giving into such a temptation, but it took a weight off his shoulders.

 

He lit up right in his bedroom before moving to the ‘living room’, a fucking fake title if there ever one. There wasn’t enough space to call it a room worth living in and yet that was where he slept. Kid got his own room and Bro had the couch. He didn’t need a whole ass bedroom to himself, he grew up without one, he didn’t need any fucking pampering now. The kid though? Dave. Bro wanted space between the two of them. It’s why the kid had a space to his own, out of Bro’s sight and mind when he wasn’t in the mood to play guardian. The idea alone of them sharing sleeping arrangements was enough to make the eldest Strider frown; nope, fuck that seven ways to sunday and back. He needed his own fucking space and the brat needed to not be in it 24/7.

He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge in a manner he knew wouldn’t set off the traps he’d planted, crack the door open, hold for three seconds, close it, open it ¾’s the way, close it, then open it all the way with a hard yank. It fucked with the wiring of his booby trap enough that it caused the swords to stay in place, if the trap hadn’t been triggered already. The refrigerator was still filled with deadly weapons and the bait still sat there as he left it. Either Dave was getting smarter or he hadn’t opened the fridge yet. Bro bet his money on the second option. The door was closed and Bro took his fine ass to the couch where he plopped himself down and let the nicotine take him.

 

His first was already down to the stub, the second ignited on the dying embers before being smudged out on the table top and a long drag was taken. It worked like it always did: a wave of endorphins hitting him, blanketing that rage that was always alight within him, hiding it beneath a tarp of smoke and tobacco.

When he was younger the power these things held over him was amazing. They almost washed away his anger in its entirety, and for a moment Dir-- Bro, never his real name, that name was gone when the kid came into his life-- had been able to pretend he was like everyone else. That he didn’t feel this burning fury at all times, that he didn’t enjoy picking people apart, tearing into their being and breaking it down to nothing, that he didn’t enjoy the rush he got when a fist connected to a face or broke a bone, that he didn’t _love_ the power to control others, their thoughts, their actions, their everything-- but as he got older the less and less effective they became.

It was better that way, he told himself, Lil’Cal agreed as well, that censoring himself was weak and Bro wasn’t weak. But he still smoked them. He needed that small calm offered to him because he got sloppy when stone cold sober, he forgot how to act normal and let his tendencies run wild. Dave had ended up with a few broken limbs because of that, kid’s fault entirely for pissing him off when he was in a fucking mood, but Bro didn’t like the lack of control over himself and he didn’t like the brat drawing attention to how the Strider household worked.

 

People wouldn’t fucking get it.

 

Bro was moving onto his third cigarette when a weight wrapped itself around him, hugging him in a way no one else was allowed to do, let alone touch him in such a manner. He cast a glance at Cal who had both arms around his neck, comforting in a way only the C-man could, beautiful blue eyes staring past his shades and into his own.

 

Message received, no more smoking for today.

 

The third was returned to the pack for another time and the second was put out the same way as the first. His edge was fine, manageable, he didn’t need another.

The puppet smiled at this, Bro could tell the difference between his normal face and when he was really smiling, he always could tell what C-man was thinking; they had a bond deeper than the Mariana Trench, shit was locked down and sealed up like a virgin wearing a chastity belt, it was a connection Bro couldn’t put into words but he didn’t need to because words wouldn’t be able to fucking describe the badassery broship that he and Lil’Cal had.

 

They fist bumped and it was fucking awesome like always.

 

Then Cal was gone, not that Bro couldn’t keep track of where the dude went, he always could follow C-mans movements, always knew where he was going to go because it felt like he was the one moving him. But Cal didn’t need him to move, Cal could move on his own, the puppet didn’t need his help to do that sorta shit.

 

Lil’Cal appeared by the window and Bro got up to join him, listening to pointless drumming of the rain against cheap glass. If he focused he could hear a beat, repetitive and precise, one two one two three one two one two three and so on and so on. The puppet moved back into his favorite spot, arms wrapping around his neck and hugging him close. Sometimes Cal hugged too hard and it was like his air was being cut off but Bro never stopped him. Why would he? A little excitement never hurt anyone. Maybe a pussy would back out but he wasn’t a fucking wimp, he could take a hug with a little extra strength, he could deal with how hard it became to breath because he was a fucking man. Men suck it up. They become stronger from it.

 

D

a

v

e

 

The thought popped into his head without context. Sometimes thoughts did that, appeared out of nowhere and lingered around until he put them together, like a jigsaw puzzle that started with the fucking middle piece.

 

Why was he thinking about the kid?

 

Bro turned inward, thinking over what had been running through his mind just before Dave’s name popped up like a single kernel in the microwave, breaking each thought down into pieces to try and piece together this jigsaw handed to him.

 

The beat, one two one two three one two one two three, possible connection, kid liked music but so did Bro. Weak connection, placed on the back burner. The rain, his wet computer and blaming the brat. Weaker connection, the kid wasn’t at fault for that he was.

Thinking about that made his anger spike.

That wasn’t a connection that was a feeling, toss it.

Tossed.

Lil’Cal, cool dude, rad puppet, puppets were amazing, always there, another weak connection, but a badass one. Men, strength, weakness, being a little pussy, Dave, Dave was weak, Dave needed to get stronger, grow stronger, connection found.

Bring it all back, make it whole.

Rain, kid, beat, strength: Strife.

 

The rain would make for good training. The kid needed practice in all types of terrain, hot sunny roof wasn’t going fucking cut it, kid need more experience, needed to broaden his horizons and grow from it. Fighting in the rain, wet pavement, obscure vision, clothes heavy; a perfect training situation.

 

One that wouldn’t stick around long. Rain was was practically a luxury in Texas.

 

He grabbed a sword from a pile, there was always one about the apartment somewhere; Strider house rule, never go anywhere without a sword, never be left defenseless-- Bro grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the kitchen, his note simple and to the point: Roof. Now. Nothing else needed to be said. Nothing else mattered. The kid would show. Bro taught him to show up and throw down when called to action. Striders don’t run from strifes.

 

Message was stabbed into the kid’s door and Bro took to the roof.

 

No one saw shit and no one questioned shit. It was that way by design. Bro left nothing to chance, nothing to luck. No one lived around them because he made sure they fucking didn’t. He spread rumors about how terrible the highest floors were, sabotaged the other apartments when people toured them, had bots constantly sending out better offers to those looking into the renting on this floor, all pieces he kept careful watch on to ensure the entire floor was at their discretion. He didn’t need people getting nosy. He didn’t need people misunderstanding. Their judgmental eyes. Pawns out of his control. Bro didn’t fucking need that in his life so it was better to keep pieces off the playing field.

 

The moment he stepped foot outside Bro got a shoe full of water and a wet sock as a bonus prize. Rain beat down on his skin and Cal become soaked through, water adding weight to the puppet that tethered him down. C-man would have to sit this fight out, Dave wasn’t getting a fucking handicap.

Bro walked out into the rain to get a better feel for it, shifting his weight around as his dry shoe slowly became sluggish and wet from the downpour. He tried out a few swings, with and without the puppet on his back, practiced his flash step once and then once more to understand how he moved in the downpour, how well he could see as the heavy drops crashed down against his shades and beat at his back.

 

Then the door was opening and Bro was gone. Flash stepping to take cover and watch as Dave stepped out into the rain, sword at his side.

 

Mistake number one.

 

Come with the sword at the ready not by your side like some limp wristed bitch.

 

His movements were a blur, quick and clean as the water all but moved around him as he swung his katana down, metal ringing through the rain, and then he was gone again, leaving the kid time to catch his breath.

 

A warning blow, the only one Dave would get for the whole match.

 

Bro always gave one. Just one.

 

He shouldn’t need to fucking repeat himself.

 

Cal was watching. Lil’Cal always watched their strifes. He gave good critique. Sometimes he watched and gave notes, sometimes he joined in. C-man didn’t seem interested in partaking in the lesson today, the water was killing his mood. Bro understood. If he was made of fluff and cotton he’d hate being wet too, being filled with nothing but water to the point of becoming a rock and sinking down into nothing. C-man could sit this one out. Bro was chill with that.

 

“What are you laughing at, man?” Dave asked the puppet, his voice threatening to break into a higher pitch. Bro wondered if it was fear or puberty making the kid’s voice go haywire, if it was fear that would have to be fixed. If it was puberty the kid would have to shut up until it passed. He sounded pathetic like this.

 

Cal watched Dave, silent, and amused. He wasn’t laughing though. Bro could tell when he was, it was a beautiful sound, little hee’s and hoo’s echoing back in on themselves that rang like sweetest of bells in his head, drowning out his thoughts. Dave never could hear Cal like he could. Kid always misread the dude. He got close but never fully there. A pity. He was missing out.

 

Not that Bro wanted to share his broship of Cal with anyone else.

 

Their bond was special.

 

“I know he’s close if you’re here.” One point to Dave. C-Man was always with him unless he left the house to do basic shit.

 

But one point off for leaving himself open like that. Dave was focused on the wrong person. Bro was the target threat here, not his puppet. Dave was leaving himself open for an attack by putting his attention elsewhere. He should know better.

 

The anger flickered as the nicotine started to fade.

 

“Close? Sure.” His voice was cool and controlled despite the growing resentment at the kid’s half assed strife display.

 

Bro had been able to bring a sword to Dave’s neck without so much as a struggle. It was disgustingly weak. The sharp steel was pressed right against his neck, so easily able to be slit open, the kid would be dead in a matter of seconds if he pressed down just a little more, cut open the skin and let the red pour out, the brat was at his mercy and the fight hadn’t even begun.

 

“Sloppy.” The katana knicked Dave’s skin, a reminder of what could have happened if this were a real fight.

 

There was a rush when the blade drew blood, a control like no other when you held someone's life in the palm of your hand. It was intoxicating in all the best ways. In all the wrong ways too. Bro could kill the kid here and now and there was such a sick pleasure in that feeling that would come back to haunt him when he was five or more bottles in.

 

Bro wouldn’t do it.

 

Killing Dave was not an option.

 

Murder was off the table, on the floor, and being eaten by the rats.

 

Because Bro had a duty to train him, make him stronger, make him better than who he was, and Dave couldn’t do that if he was dead.

 

But Bro could enjoy the trip, bask in dizzying addiction and know he would never follow through. There would always be some part of him that never let him follow through.

 

He wasn’t sure if that was a weakness or not.

 

He pulled the blade away, eyes watching from behind his shades as the red dripped down his neck, watered down by the rain. His stomach burned hot at the sight of it and Bro pulled himself back as well, taking C-man with him when Dave spoke up again and pulled him from his thoughts.

 

They still had a lesson to finish and Bro needed Cal with him, the weight of the puppet against his back would remind him to stay focused. Training came first. His own enjoyment of it was a by product. It did not come first.

 

Dave had learned from his mistake though and now kept his back to the edge of the roof, a space he couldn’t get behind without risking a misstep and plummeting to his death. A smart move. Point to Dave.

Bro attacked from the right this time, sword high and this time the kid was able to block his swing, the metal clanged and the rain rippled around them. Good. Another point. He followed up by moving to grab the kid’s clothes. Bro had always been a believer that in a fight all was fucking fair, in a real battle no one played by the rules and you had to be prepared for anything. No one in combat stuck to the rules so he didn’t either. If he could grab the kid then that was a failure on Dave's part, being grabbed and thrown to the ground was a death sentence because once you were down the chances of you getting back up were nill. Dave ducked, slipped through his fingers as he went down and swung low to take out his legs. Bro found the attempt almost cute, leg sweeps rarely worked, and the kid lacked the power behind the swing to make them count. Bro jumped it with ease and swiped for the kid’s hair, hand closing around air as the kid scrambled back up to his feet. There was no grace in the movement so Bro did not give points for the second dodge.

 

There was no grace in any of his movements. Too slow. Too hesitant. Too sloppy.

 

His lip twitched down for a moment and the kid read him like a book. He wasn’t pleased with how this training session was going. Dave wasn’t doing good enough. It was rain. A little fucking water. He could do better. Bro had raised him to do better.

 

This was a failure.

 

Bro was a failure.

 

The anger in his burst forth and Bro threw himself at the kid, bringing more weight down onto the strike than before and he knew Dave wouldn’t be able to deflect it entirely, the brat hadn’t grown enough to block something of this caliber yet.

The blade slipped by his defense and cut clean through his shit, through skin, and left behind the barest hints of a flesh wound. It was a fucking scratch. It wasn’t a real wound. Dave had suffered real wounds. Bro had suffered real wounds. That was a fucking knick. The kid went down with a cry and Bro would have held his head down in the water if he screamed like a little bitch. But Dave suffered through it and held it in. Least some lessons were sticking in the runt’s mind today.

 

“Not doing well today, little man.” The kid wasn’t. Bro could tally up the scores in his head and Dave barely had four points to his name. His game was sloppy today and Bro was starting to doubt the rain was the cause. He had reacted to the attacks in a timely manner, hadn’t skidded in the puddles, kept his eyes on the fucking prize. No, the downpour wasn’t what was pulling the kid down, brat was just fucking up. “Get your head on straight and focus, dumb shit.”

 

The words must have stirred something in the kid because this time Dave attacked first, faking left and going right, aiming to hit Bro’s dominant sword arm. Bro would give Dave half a point for effort but there was no subtlety in his movements, it was clear from the start what he was planning to do, where he was going to step next, lil fucker was hardly even trying to conceal his actions.

 

“Tch. not good enough.”

 

He grabbed Dave’s arm and twisted it backwards, the blade slipping from the kids hands and clattered to the ground, the rain bouncing off the metal;  one two one two three one two one two three-- Sloppy.

You never let go of your weapon. You don’t fucking ever let go of your weapon. You hold onto it because the moment you let go of it you’ve lost your one way to turn the tides back into your favor.

 

Dave wasn’t doing good enough.

 

Dave wasn’t good enough.

 

He wasn’t good enough.

 

Bro wasn’t good enough.

 

    Bro slammed Dave’s head into the concrete and there was a satisfying crunch that filled the air, louder than the rain drumming in his ears, drowning it out and Bro needed more. Dave needed to be better. Bro needed control back. He needed that rush. He needed Dave to tough it out and get better.

 

“When are you going to learn? It’s not THAT hard, you little shit.” Bro was on his feet and he kicked the brat away, giving him the opportunity to stand up. Bro was granting Dave a mercy. Bro wanted to hurt him more but he was giving the brat a chance to prove himself. “GET. UP.”

 

Dave wasn’t getting up fast enough. He was too slow. Staggering and wheezing like he had been hit by trunk and not a some half assed kick. Bro could kick harder.

 

“Didn’t raise a damn quitter.”

 

“N-not a quitter. I-...” The kid was on his feet, he was standing and he was facing Bro.

 

His form was shit. A light wind could knock the kid back on his ass but he was fucking standing and he wasn’t running. Half a point. For honoring the Strider code and for listening to him.

 

“Then prove it.” Bro slapped him upside the head, a reminder for why they were doing this. To make Dave better. Make him stronger. Remove this flaws and imperfections. What Bro gained from this was a by product, not center focus. Never center focus.

 

The kid nodded his head.

 

He understood. Dave was smart when he wanted to be. He knew these lessons were for his own good.

 

Dave looked to his blade and wasted no time bolting for it, fixing his mistake from earlier. Bro could have chased after him, knocked him back down as punishment for being so sloppy as to lose it in the first place. But he didn’t. He was feeling charitable.

 

No he wasn’t. That was a lie.

 

He was feeling… powerful.

 

It was his decision to allow Dave to retrieve his weapon, his mercy and nothing else saved the brat from a full on punishment. That rush hit him again and Bro felt good.

 

He felt in control.

 

He felt better about himself.

 

The rest of the fight was inconsequential. It was a blur of metal against metal, rain pelting their faces, and that sweet addicting taste of knowing he could end it all at a moment’s notice, that it was his holding back that kept the kid standing, that he was the reason Dave was slowly wearing himself down to nothing. It made the fight less of a chore. It made it enjoyable.

The kid got a single hit on him, a small cut across his arm, the best Dave had managed to do in awhile and Bro counted that towards this session not being a complete waste of their time. Dave was improving. Slowly. But he was. It just wasn’t fast enough. Cal had even joined in a few times when Bro needed to test the kids focus. C-man always knew what he was thinking.

 

But by the end of it, it was Dave on the ground, heaving out gasps for air as the water around him dyed red and the rain threatened to fill his open mouth. Dave laid there and Bro mentally tallied up the points in his head.

 

Sub satisfactory.

 

“Still not good enough.” What improvements Dave had made were washed away by all the mistakes he had made, buried deep and forgotten as Bro approached the prone figure and knelt down besides him, shaded eyes meeting bright red ones.

 

Dave had lost his sunglasses during the strife, another strike against him. Bro shook his head in disappointment and grabbed Dave by the neck, pulling him up to his feet and dropping him without a second thought when the brat was in standing position. He didn’t fall but Bro had already stopped counting points in the kid’s favor. Now that little victory was hollow. Bro wasn’t impressed.

 

“Get your ass inside and clean up.” Bro motioned toward the stairs that led back down to their apartment.

 

Dave nodded and stumbled towards them and Bro watched as the younger Strider lost his focus and stopped to look at something. His attention lingered and some crows flew by, his attention lingered and the kid was distracted.

 

Bro pushed Dave down the stairs.

 

No.

 

He threw Dave down the stairs.

 

A push implies there was little force behind it and Bro had thrown his weight against the kid’s open back, watched with fascinated glee as Dave careened down, down, and crashed to the bottom of the steps. There was a hot sensation that flooded his senses and Bro choose not to put a name to the feeling.

 

Kid deserved it anyway for getting distracted like that.

 

“Bro! The hell was that for!!??!”

 

Bro looked down at him, half smirking. “Warned you about the stairs, little man.” He had. Time and time again he warned Dave about those tricky stairs. They could be your greatest ally if used correctly.

 

“Ugh… suck a dick, asshole!!”

The kid was taking too long to stand up. He always took too long to stand up Bro was finding.

 

Bro appeared beside Dave, masterfully flash stepping to the fallen crybaby’s side and picked him up by the back of his sopping wet shirt. That had to go. “Go change. You’ll get sick if you sit around in wet clothes like a dumbass.” He dragged Dave back to their apartment, he didn’t trust the little fucker not to stumble or get distracted again. Just because the whole floor was theirs didn’t mean Bro liked to play fast and loose with this shit.

 

“Whatever.” Bro was locking the door when he heard the uncalled for back sass.

 

Bro was on Dave in an instant, blocking the escape to the bedroom as he openly scowled down at the spoiled brat. “Hey. You do what I say, punk. Change your clothes. You’re not sick. You think we have the funds for you to just get sick any time you want?” The kid knew better. He knew what getting sick cost. Bro didn’t have health insurance, Bro had drilled it into that stupid fuckers head how broken the healthcare system was, what it would cost if Dave really took ill, how they’d have to make difficult choices like choosing between water, food, or electricity.

 

This time it wasn’t a slap to the side of the head so much as a punch. Dave’s head bounced off the wall with a loud thud and Bro felt that gratifying rush take him once more. Shit was better than nicotine and booze combined, damped that burning rage inside of him like blanket smothering a fire.

 

Dave nodded and mumbled out: “Sorry…” and Bro struck him again.

 

Not because it felt good.

 

It did. But that wasn’t why.

 

“Don’t apologize. That’s weak. You do dumb shit you own up to it.”

 

Men don’t apologize. Striders don’t apologize. They deal with their fuck up, learn from it, and move on. They don’t pussy out and say pointless words that wouldn’t do shit.

 

When Dave said nothing else Bro moved away, stripping off his wet clothes as he went, leaving them on the floor to be picked up later by himself or the kid. Whoever got there first.

 

Cal was on the sofa waiting for him, sopping wet with arms open, ready to be picked up. Bro lovingly scooped the puppet into his arms, feeling the water run down his already soaked fram and stinging at the open wound Dave had managed to leave on him. He should get that shit taken care of. Lil’Cal always reminded him to look after himself. Bro passed the kitchen by and there was a urge to snag a beer from one of his many hiding spots, a tug that directed him to drink and drink until that pathetic shell of a man came out.

Cal shifted to hugging him, squeezing his neck, and Bro remembered why he was going to the bathroom and not the kitchen. He muttered a thanks and continued on by without another thought to the alcohol.

 

In his veins still burned that twisted enjoyment, burned through his lunges and in the back of his mind, pumped through his heart and into his lunges. He should take care of that too.

 

Lil’Cal hugged him tighter and for a split second air was hard to come by.

 

Focus.

 

Dry C-man off first, treat his wound second, then deal with that.

 

There was a chill setting into his bones by the time the puppet was fully dried off, the blood had crusted and his body blistered with the need for a release. Bro should care more about the chill, step into the warmth of a hot shower and clean himself up.

 

He should.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

He sees to that burning fucked up power trip first and lets the cold sink into his skin, lets it rot and fester there and down the line it will bite him in the ass; put him out of commission for a whole week with a delirium and terror he can’t shake. Retribution from a better part of him that only comes out in a weakened state. It is born of pity and vulnerability and it is disgusting. Bro hates that side of him and he’ll hate being sick.

 

But for now the rain falls outside, the only witness to a one sided strife.

 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._


End file.
